MEMENTO VIVERE
by Daurmith
Summary: *COMPLETE* Rebecca receives a telegram that sends her and Phileas to Prussia on a very dismal errand. Happens before
1. Default Chapter

* * * * * * * * * *   
MEMENTO VIVERE  
An SAJV tale by Adela / Daurmith  
  
  
  
- Primus -  
Libera Animas Omnium Fidelium Defunctorum  
  
  
  
"Jackass, woodenhead, snollygoster," muttered Rebecca under her breath, as she walked at a very unladylike pace through the streets of London. "Windbag, yellowdog, whippersnapper. Imbecile." People on the streets fled from her rage as she strode towards Saville Row, still muttering the best from her not inconsiderable repertory of insults. It was a good thing that she never crossed any suspicious character, or he would have looked suspicious for a very short time before looking directly unconscious. The piece of paper she held crumpled in her hand seemed to smoke.  
  
  
The flow of invectives had started the moment she closed the door to Chatsworth's office on her way out. The pasty, pompous face of her chief was still in her mind, his words only too vivid. "It's a delicate matter, Miss Fogg," had been his first, hesitant words. She sat and waited. Chatsworth would get to the point, if given enough time and a few unsubtle hints.  
  
"Would it have something to do with that telegram you have there, Sir Jonathan?"  
  
"What telegr... Oh." Chatsworth looked at the piece of paper that he had been fondling for the last five minutes. "Oh. Ahm. Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, it does. It's - Well, it's a rather delicate matter, Miss Fogg."  
  
"What is, Sir Jonathan?" Rebecca fought hard to keep her voice polite and interested.  
  
"The, well, the, ah... This matter, yes. It's from Brideshaw. It's been decoded, of course. The telegram, not Brideshaw. Reliable man, Brideshaw. You don't know him, but he's been with us a long time."  
  
"I've read some of his reports," Rebecca offered, wanting him to move on.  
  
"Yes. This is, um. Awkward. The information here concerns your family, you see. So, I would leave to you the decision whether to tell your cousin or not. It is not, well, it is not a highly classified matter. Or you can also keep the information to yourself, as you choose. As I said, it is entirely up to you. I would hate to deprive you of the responsibility."  
  
Chatsworth held the telegram at arm's length, still out of Rebecca's reach, not quite offering it to her. Finally she got fed up, rose from her chair, and took the slip of paper from the pudgy fingers. Chatsworth surrendered it with a weak "It is a family matter, really," and she read it.  
  
Five seconds later, without looking up, she crumpled the telegram in her hand, murmured "I see. Thank you, Sir Jonathan," and exited the office, very pale.  
  
  
  
Her anger lasted her most of the walk. Then she turned the corner and saw the clean, empty street, and the elegant yet sober door of her cousin Phileas's house. All the anger ebbed from her as blood from a wound, and she stood there stupidly, her face slackening in sudden sorrow. Chatsworth had weaseled out if this one, the toady twit. It was up to her. Should she tell Phileas? She smoothed out the paper, now warm and damp from her hand's sweat. But the words were still there, clear and blunt:  
  
BODY FOUND LAST WEEK IN DOUBS GORGE STOP FITS DESCRIPTION OF ERASMUS FOGG STOP SEND AGENT TO CONFIRM IDENTITY STOP BRIDESHAW  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Miss Rebecca, what a pleasure to be seeing you! Come in, come in!"  
  
"Thank you, Passepartout." Rebecca bought a few precious instants while she allowed Passepartout to get her coat and gloves. "Is Phileas in?"  
  
"Mister Fogg is being in the study, Miss," Passepartout said, suddenly formal. "Will I announce you?"  
  
"Not yet. Tell me, how is he?" Although the French valet had been in Phileas's service for less than a month, his utterly idiosyncratic approach both to service and to the English language had appealed enormously to Rebecca, who found it very easy to talk to him. However improper the question might have been if addressed to any normal valet, it fell squarely into the boundaries of the unorthodox camaraderie established between the cheerful Frenchman and the female agent.  
  
Passepartout hesitated for an instant and Rebecca felt her throat constrict. The crumpled telegram burned her hand.  
  
"He's being mostly well, Miss," he said at last. "Going away and gaming, and then coming back to drinking and not to sleeping. But he is with an interest in the =Aurora=, and we gone for a trip to France last week. He liked that."  
  
=This is absurd=, Rebecca told herself. =Phileas is a grown man. Granted, he lost his father not two months ago, but even then, here we are, talking about him behind his back as if he were an invalid.=  
  
"Now that you are here, perhaps I can make him have food with you together, yes?" Passepartout said, hopefully.   
  
"I - I don't know, Passepartout. Maybe I should come back later. I mean, tomorrow." =Coward=. "I don't - I really don't want to disturb him."  
  
"Not disturbing, you are not never disturbing, Miss Rebecca! Come, come, let me make the cup of tea and you go to the study and I bring pasties. He will be glad to see you."  
  
=Would he.= "Very well, Passepartout. Thank you." She surrendered, and went to the studio with lead on her feet. How could she tell him?  
  
How could she not?  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Rebecca." Phileas rose from his armchair in one fluid movement and came to greet her with a warm, genuine smile on his face. He was immaculately dressed in a beautiful smoking jacket. The blinding whiteness of his shirt glowed faintly in the dimly lit room. "It's so nice to see you. Sit down, please. Passepartout!"  
  
"Yes, Master?"  
  
"Would you bring us a pot of Earl Grey?"  
  
"The water is being boiling already, Master, and I will bring the good pasties."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
They sat down.  
  
"You know, I'm becoming quite fond of Passepartout," Phileas said in a light tone, when the silence grew awkward. "I don't quite know why. He has no idea of proper service, his English is appalling, and his inventions would exhaust the patience of Job himself. But he seems to come attached to the =Aurora=, and I confess I am in love with that ship. You should come for our next trip."  
  
"Oh? Where are you going?" Rebecca managed not to sound like a hoarse frog, and even produced a small smile.  
  
"Oh, I don't know. Africa. Or Turkey. I haven't quite decided yet."  
  
Tea arrived, almost hidden behind a plate full of seed cakes and toasted crumpets. Passepartout served it with a maximum of fuss but a minimum of spills and, after hovering indecisively for a few seconds around the table, he left. Rebecca guessed he would not go far. Behind the barrier of the china cup, she studied her cousin.  
  
The death of his father, Sir Boniface, had been a blow more for England than for Phileas. As Head of the British Secret Service, Sir Boniface had left a huge hole at the top that Chatsworth had absolutely no hope of filling. Rebecca, the first female field agent in the Service, had to get used to the new chief, and was having a moderate success. Since Phileas had resigned last winter - shortly after the disastrous mission in East Prussia that had cost his brother Erasmus his life - he didn't have that problem.   
  
Phileas had been one of the most brilliant agents the Service had seen, but after Erasmus's death, he'd seemed to crumble into a silent heap of despair. He'd gone much further than merely resigning from the Service; he'd cut any contact with his father, adopting the manners and appearance of a high-class fop: no more than a rich, superficial dilettante with a taste for heavy gambling and heavy drinking.  
  
Shortly after Sir Boniface's funeral, however, Phileas had played a most peculiar game of poker that had left him the sole possessor of the =Aurora=, a beautiful dirigible, and Passepartout, her navigator, who had also taken the duties of a valet. The bizarre turn of events had left Phileas somewhat off-balance; recently he appeared to have almost forgotten his black moods and was taking a small, but increasing, interest in life again.  
  
Given this state of things, Rebecca had absolutely no idea about how he would react to the news she was bringing.  
  
"Very well," Phileas said, and Rebecca started and spilled half her tea. "Will you tell me what is it, or will I have to guess?"  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"You have hardly said two words since you arrived, cousin. And, forgive me, but you look quite pale. Is there any way in which I can be of service?"  
  
"Phileas, I..." Phileas's gaze fell on her fist, still holding the telegram, and then on her face. He waited, no longer smiling. She could still make an excuse and leave, go to Prussia alone. But he needed to know. And she needed him to know. Even if the knowledge brought back the gaunt, empty-eyed shell into which her cousin had retreated after Erasmus's death.  
  
"We've received this," she whispered, and handed him the crumpled paper. He took it with a raised eyebrow, glanced at it, and then his face closed up in a totally blank mask, devoid of all expression. She waited, afraid of his reaction, terrified of getting none.  
  
"Passepartout." He called softly, getting up. The valet appeared in a second, and his face changed when he perceived the mood in the room.  
  
"Master?"   
  
"Prepare the =Aurora=. I wish to leave for Prussia as soon as possible."  
  
"Yes, Master."  
  
"=We= wish to leave," said Rebecca, also getting up. The course of action was laid and she had no more doubts. "I just need to fetch some things for the trip."  
  
Phileas didn't acknowledge her words in any way. As soon as Passepartout left, he walked out of the room in silence and disappeared upstairs.  
  
Rebecca sat alone in the room and tore the telegram in many little pieces.  
  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
End of Chapter One 


	2. Secundus

* * * * * * * * * *   
MEMENTO VIVERE  
  
- Secundus -  
Lacrimosa Dies Illa  
  
  
  
Rebecca turned reluctantly away from her study of Passepartout's piloting of the =Aurora=. The ship glided through the air as gently as a will-o'-the-wisp. If not for the constant hum of the engines, Rebecca could have believed they were riding a cloud.  
  
A dark cloud, though, in more than one sense. It was before dawn. She had hurried back to the Service to get her gear and some documents, knowing fully well that if the =Aurora= was ready before she returned, Phileas would go without her. Now she was torn between her fascination with the ship and worry for her cousin.  
  
Phileas was a dark silhouette against the magnificent array of panoramic windows at the prow of the gondola. He held a glass of brandy in one hand. The other hand grasped the rail. He was looking at the beautiful night outside, but he was clearly seeing a very different thing. Rebecca walked to his side.  
  
"Phileas..." There was a very unusual tremor of indecision in Rebecca's voice. "It's possible that the body is not..."  
  
"I know."  
  
"You didn't need to come. I could have..."  
  
"Rebecca." His voice stopped her. "I have to do this. I owe him that. At least that."  
  
"There is no debt, Phileas."  
  
"Isn't there." Phileas turned to her. His voice was clipped and frightfully controlled. "He died for me, Rebecca. I call that a debt. Of life."  
  
"It was his choice. And coming to Prussia right now could be dangerous for you. Your cover was blown wide open."  
  
"Do you think I care about that? Do you think I give a jot about covers, or safety, if I have the slightest chance of bringing my brother home? Would you do any less?"  
  
Rebecca bit her lip in frustration. It was so hard to talk to Phileas when he was like this. He wouldn't listen to reason, he wouldn't care about details, and he could very easily get killed... =Oh=. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the stiff stance of her cousin.  
  
"We just have to leave the =Aurora= in some secluded spot, find Brideshaw, and... identify the body," she said, carefully. "And then it's back to England without any fuss. No need to take unnecessary risks."  
  
Phileas took a sip of brandy and turned to the windows again.  
  
"Of course."  
  
But his voice did not hold any reassurance and Rebecca did not dare to insist.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The night went on, weary and monotonous. Phileas sat at the table, behind a newspaper, clearly using it as a barrier, not as reading material. Rebecca got bored of reading Brideshaw's incredibly dull monthly reports and started pacing the cabin, until a small sigh from Phileas's side of the room made her stop. She went to the small kitchen and found Passepartout there, busying himself with breakfast and looking worried.  
  
"Miss Rebecca," he said, smiling, when he saw her. "Tea will be ready very rapidly."  
  
"That's fine, Passepartout." She leant on the opposite wall and watched him work. "You seem to keep the =Aurora= very well stocked at all times."  
  
"I am never knowing when the Master decides to go, to stay. It's best to be fooded."  
  
"Do you know why are we going to Prussia?" She didn't think it fair to drag Passepartout into a dreary and potentially dangerous mission without at least a fair warning, and if Phileas had not told him, she would make sure that the valet would know enough to take care of himself.  
  
"The Master told me," he said in a low voice. "To seeing the body of a man who is maybe brother Erasmus, yes?"  
  
"Do you know... what happened?" she went on, gently. Did Passepartout know about Phileas's involvement with the Service? And hers?   
  
The valet gave her a quick sideways look. "I... Some of it. Brother Erasmus fell down the edge and into the river. Mister Fogg was there and he couldn't help. He does not talk much. He goes dark when he thinks it."  
  
Rebecca, also, felt the darkness, when she thought about it. Losing Erasmus had been a very cruel blow, and she still felt his death acutely. The sadness was mixed with the guilty relief of knowing that Phileas had not been lost as well. But what was a comfort to her was a curse to her cousin.  
  
"It is a good thing to do this," Passepartout said unexpectedly, startling her. "Maybe the master gets some rest now, like when things are ended."  
  
"I hope so." Said Rebecca, doubtfully. After a pause, she added, "I suppose you must be wishing that you were with your former master now."  
  
"Not me. Not Passepartout, Miss. On the first, with this master, it was, how do you say, rare. Not normal, not the kind of normal master a valet is getting. But the Baron was not normal either. So, it is good, not bad. I get used. And we do lots of more funnier things, with Mister Fogg. Only not this thing. This, not being funny. It being sad. But I want to help. I pilot the =Aurora= as very fastly as I can, if that helps. Tell me how to help, and Passepartout helps."  
  
Rebecca looked at him for a while and saw nothing but good cheer, helpfulness, and loyalty. Being an agent, her trust was hard to get and harder to give. And yet, her instincts told her, no, =screamed= at her, to trust this man. But in her line of work, trust recklessly given could be lethal. She smiled at him and nodded, noncommittally.  
  
"You are doing just fine, Passepartout."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Alone in the cabin, Phileas closed his eyes, weary to the bone, knowing what awaited him in the red penumbra behind his eyelids. His hand clenched of its own accord, crumpling the newspaper, clutching a dead hand that would always and forever slip from his, and plunge into the gorge, and leave him alone at the edge of the abyss, aching.  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
End of Chapter Two 


	3. Tertius

* * * * * * * * * *   
MEMENTO VIVERE  
  
- Tertius -  
Libera Eas De Ore Leonis  
  
  
  
"Herr General?" The secretary, long used to his boss's customs, knocked quite loudly on the heavy door to give him time to wake up and sit straight. The gruff voice that answered from the other side had a distinct slur that spoke of a heavier than usual sleep. The secretary opened the door.  
  
"What is it, Heinrich?"  
  
"Colonel von Kessler to see you, sir."  
  
"Von Kessler? What's that young upstart doing here?"  
  
"He has an appointment, sir."  
  
"He has? Well, in that case, make him wait five minutes and then show him in, the arrogant peacock. No respect for his elders at all. Do you show respect for your elders, Heinrich?"  
  
"I believe so, sir." Heinrich, who was fifty-five and twelve years the General's junior, did not smile. He was a very experienced secretary and knew exactly what he could or could not say in the presence of his boss, who had no sense of humor, no patience, no imagination to speak of, and very little understanding of things not directly related to the military. In Heinrich's opinion, the fact that the General's wife bore him two children was more a miracle than anything in the way of a natural process.  
  
"Be sure that you do. Very important thing, respect."  
  
"Yes, sir." Heinrich closed the door softly behind him; the General sat on his chair as straight as his prodigious girth would allow and composed his features in a foreboding expression.  
  
  
  
General Weigand had been appointed Chief of the Prussian Intelligence Service more out of desperation than any other reason: there was no one else. Prussia had recognized the necessity of keeping up with the French, English and Italian more sophisticated networks of agents and informants, and it had succeeded, at least as far as organization and discipline were concerned. But they were sadly lacking in everything else. The General could not grasp the importance of codes, moles, counterintelligence, and all the other subtle and often sinister tools of the trade. His approach to secrecy was not to wear a uniform. His understanding of politics was, at the best, faulty; and his cunning did not go beyond calling his agents "cousin" in his telegrams.  
  
This, however, had worked quite well for the last few years, when everything that had been required of him had been capturing and shooting foreign spies. But now the game was getting more and more complicated, with new players, double and triple agents, political moves, and poisoned sources of information. The General couldn't make sense of most of the new reports that appeared daily on his desk, even after they had been decoded by his staff, and he felt that his job was slipping away from him. But he had almost fifty years of experience in the military, and that meant that he knew very well how to hold to something and never let go, be it a saber hilt, a pistol, or his chair at the office.  
  
And he was damned if he was going to let that young fop undermine his position at his time of life.  
  
The young fop was shown in, and walked briskly to his boss's desk, saluted briskly, stood at a brisk attention, and offered a brisk and friendly smile that did not fool Weigand for a moment. Von Kessler had ascended through the ranks smiling all the way, and with the speed of a shark rising to attack a wounded seal. He was not very tall, but had the kind of vibrant energy that was usually found only in beehives and bonfires. He was always dressed in impeccable parade uniform, with the short cape worn at a jaunty angle over one shoulder, and the boots shining like polished ebony. All through the Service people liked and admired him, albeit from a safe distance; his plans had been unusually successful so far and he had been responsible for some of the best intelligence coups the Prussians had seen. Everybody took it for granted that he would replace, or indeed dethrone, Weigand. And quite soon.  
  
The General watched him with open hostility. That was, however, how he watched everyone, so von Kessler simply stood there, his smile now thinner and more openly challenging, waiting for his superior to speak.  
  
"Good afternoon, Colonel," Weigand grumbled.   
  
"Good afternoon, General. I trust I find you well?" Von Kessler radiated goodwill and innocence. The General narrowed his eyes, which seemed to disappear into the folds of his flabby, bright red face. He grunted vaguely and held some papers as far as his arm would go, squinting mightily to read them.  
  
"So. You made a sad mess of that affair with the two British agents last winter, and now you want us to help you clean up after you, eh?"  
  
Von Kessler's smile froze. It was something that, when happened, put people in mind of the aforementioned sharks. And also of rabid dogs, cobras, and very annoyed tigers. The General, however, didn't notice. After a second, von Kessler recovered his geniality and laughed.  
  
"Well, General, that's a peculiar way of putting it. As I recall, not only did we take care of the British attempt to hit our network, but we also got rid of one of their most troublesome agents. One that, if I may mention it, was responsible for two very costly failed missions."  
  
"And yet the other agent slipped through your fingers as easy as kiss my hand. I expected you to get them both, Colonel. In fact, I was most disappointed when you didn't."  
  
Von Kessler leaned over the table and spoke with an eagerness that took the General by surprise.  
  
"That's why I intend to finish the job this week, General. My plan will free us from the British meddling in our affairs forever."  
  
"Hrrrm. It seems rather far-fetched to me."  
  
"Colonel, trust me: as of now I am certain that Phileas Fogg is on his way to Prussia in the fastest train that is available. And when he arrives, we will be waiting for him."  
  
"You seem very sure, Colonel. Yet I remember you were equally sure of killing Erasmus =and= Phileas Fogg last winter."  
  
"That's why it's so important for my plan to go ahead, General: so that the world is shown that Prussia does not leave loose ends and that we will pursue them as far as it takes. We are not people to be trifled with, and it is time that the British realize that. The new Head of the Secret Service is an incompetent bureaucrat: now it is the time to strike hard and fast. A couple of loud, public blunders, and British Intelligence will be completely off balance. After that, it will be only a matter of time."  
  
"And you undertake to topple the whole British Secret Service, just by yourself?" said the General, skeptically, but with a hint of doubt. Von Kessler obviously unfeigned vehemence was quite disarming.  
  
"Ah, General, how can I ever presume to do that? Doubtless the success will be attributed to your clever and firm leadership."  
  
Irony was not one of the things that the General was good at detecting. But this was hard to miss; von Kessler's voice was dripping with barely concealed insolence. Weigand's brow furrowed and his voice thundered in the room.  
  
"Take care, sir, take care. You show no respect at all for your elders, you are full of yourself, and one of these days you are going to find your Nemesis. As for your plan, I see no reason to stop it, seeing that you have overstepped your boundaries in such a disgraceful way. You have no discipline and no shame, sir. And the reason I am not arresting you right now is because I will be holding you directly responsible for your unavoidable failure, and then we'll see, sir, if you learn some respect. You may leave, now."  
  
Von Kessler belonged to a rich and ancient Western Prussian family. He was not averse to fighting duels, and in fact had gotten rid of quite a few enemies that way. Now he turned very pale, but said nothing. He saluted and left, leaving the General with the uneasy impression that he had barely escaped with his life.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Outside the office, a tall young man wearing a sober black suit was waiting for the Colonel. Von Kessler gave him a brief smile and the two of them walked out of the building. It was some time before von Kessler spoke:  
  
"The old walrus is washing his hands of the whole thing, as I predicted. We can go ahead with the rest of the plan, Kreutzmer."  
  
"Yes, Colonel. But..."  
  
"But?" Von Kessler watched him with a smile. Kreutzmer was a young agent, not very experienced, but already showing great promise. He spoke three languages fluently and had an uncanny ability to pass unnoticed: both extremely valuable traits in the kind of agent that von Kessler thought the Service needed in these new times.  
  
"Well, isn't it too... Isn't it rushing things a bit, to allow Brideshaw to send the telegram before we can secure his house?"  
  
"Relax, Wilhelm, you worry too much. Fogg will be here in two days: there is plenty of time. Have you been following Brideshaw closely?" The discovery of Brideshaw as an informant for the British had been an ace that von Kessler had kept up his sleeve long enough. Now he had the perfect excuse to play that ace, and he intended to do it without delay.  
  
"Yes. He hasn't altered his routine in the slightest."  
  
"So much the better. We don't want to make Fogg suspicious."  
  
"But surely we could take care of Brideshaw now. Fogg will go directly to his house, and then we can get him too. There's no need to wait for them to actually meet."  
  
"Kreutzmer, Kreutzmer, Kreutzmer. You have absolutely no sense of the dramatic. Both men, in the same coup, at the same time. An agent and a retired agent. No one will have time to fathom what is happening before the whole British network panics. And if the British cannot keep even their retired men out of danger, the active agents are going to grow very uneasy indeed. Always play with the fear of others, Kreutzmer. It is incredibly satisfying."  
  
"Yes, Colonel." Kreutzmer swallowed. There was a certain glint in von Kessler's eye when he spoke with such bloodthirsty cheerfulness that unsettled Kreutzmer in the strangest way.  
  
"You have to learn to enjoy this work, Kreutzmer," von Kessler was saying. "People like you and I pull the threads of this mighty puppet theater. We can topple nations, we can build empires. The Kaiser is about to rise to full power and we are going to be there, and he is going to acknowledge that he needs us. You'll see."  
  
"Yes, sir. Are you certain, though, that Fogg is coming?"  
  
"As certain as night follows day, Kreutzmer. Never fret. I have the perfect bait."  
  
"Ah, yes. It was very fortunate, to find that corpse. Is it really Erasmus Fogg's body?"  
  
Von Kessler smile widened and gave his whole face a completely engaging boyish charm.  
  
"That, my friend," he said, "is the most wonderful part of the whole affair."  
  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
End of Chapter Three 


	4. Quartus

* * * * * * * * * *   
MEMENTO VIVERE  
  
- Quartus -  
Ne Absorbeat Eas Tartarus  
  
  
  
"Phileas, slow down, we are attracting attention," Rebecca hissed, tugging at his arm with her not inconsiderable strength. Reluctantly, Phileas moderated his pace, with a sideways look at the few people that were also out in the streets. The hour was late, but not extremely so. The street lamps had been lit at sundown, but the sky still retained a deep velvety blue-back tinge.  
  
"I'm still worried about leaving Passepartout alone," she said, a bit at random. Words were a comfort around Phileas, who seemed to emanate an almost tangible cloud of silence. If not for the harsh, clear sound of his half-boots on the cobbles, punctuated by the higher clicks of his sword stick, one could have thought that he was a silent gaunt shadow haunting the town.  
  
"He will be perfectly safe," he said, startling her. She hadn't expected an answer. "We couldn't leave the =Aurora= moored down there, it's not exactly discreet."  
  
Rebecca nodded. They had sent Passepartout aloft, to hover out of sight, with instructions to come down and check the rendezvous place they had chosen, first at dawn, then again at sunset.  
  
"If we are not there at sunset," Phileas had told him in a flat voice, "do not wait further: go back to London immediately. Here are some documents. Take them to Sir Jonathan Chatsworth, he will take care of things." Passepartout had looked at him wide-eyed, shifted his gaze to Rebecca, found there the same iron-clad determination, and finally, gulping, lowered his eyes and nodded.  
  
"There's Bridehsaw's house," Rebecca said, coming back to the present with a slight start. It was a small house, two stories high, on the corner of a moderately wide street. She felt Phileas's arm stiffen, as if for battle. She let go of his arm, gently, and saw the small hesitation as his gloved hand went for the knocker.  
  
The man who opened the door had a paunch, thin legs, and an elongated head half covered in wispy light-brown hair. He was dressed in a shabby nightgown and gave the impression of being at the same time under-boiled and over-worked. His watery eyes opened for a moment in alarm at the sight of Phileas Fogg at his door, and no wonder, thought Rebecca. Her cousin's black form stood as stiff and sharp as something chiseled out of the very night. She peered from behind him and gave the man an ingratiating smile.  
  
"Good evening, Brideshaw. Rebecca Fogg. Sorry to bother you at this late hour," she said in her politest voice, to counteract Phileas's grim looks, "but we are here about your telegram. My credentials."  
  
Brideshaw took the papers, studied them for a full couple of minutes, and then his eyes went again to Phileas.  
  
"Ah... This is my cousin, Phileas Fogg. It's perfectly all right, Brideshaw."  
  
"Yes. Yes, of course, excuse my manners," Brideshaw said, stepping aside to let them in, and then he seemed to realize something. "Oh dear. =Do= excuse me. Mister Fogg, may I say how sorry I am about the death of your brother. Such a loss. It is an awful business we're in, awful."   
  
They sat down at a sturdy oaken table half covered in papers and books. Coffee was offered and politely refused by Rebecca, and finally Phileas drew a deep breath and gave Brideshaw a wan smile.  
  
"Mister Brideshaw, forgive me. I thank you for your condolences, and I apologize for my previous rudeness. However, I must tell you that the matter that brought us here bears heavily on my mind. I would be deeply thankful for any way in which we can speed the matter up."  
  
"I understand, of course."  
  
"How did you come about the news, Brideshaw?" Rebecca interjected. "Your job does not usually involve patrolling the morgues." Phileas flinched, and Brideshaw looked uncomfortable.  
  
"Indeed, no, Miss Fogg. I simply report on the town's gossip, the daily life, the public's feeling. I'm no more than a linguist, I never had any pretensions of being a field agent. You see, every spring, the river..." Brideshaw hesitated, cleared his throat, swallowed, "Every spring there are a number of bodies, released when the winter ice melts, that are recovered in the river's banks. Accidents, suicides. When they can't identify a body immediately, they publish a note in the papers, along with a description, and so..."  
  
"I see. And have you seen the body yourself?"  
  
"Well... no. I confess I am of a rather nervous nature. I would do it, of course, if no other options were available," Brideshaw said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. "The description was rather detailed. The age, height and clothes all matched, but since I was not personally acquainted with Mister Fogg - young Mister Fogg, I mean - I could not presume to send a confirmation, even if I had actually seen the... the remains."   
  
"Mister Brideshaw," Phileas said, "I wonder if it would be at all possible to see m... to see the body tonight."  
  
"Tonight?" Brideshaw yelped. "Oh, wouldn't you rather wait until morning, sir?"  
  
"We would prefer to avoid spending any more time in Prussia than is strictly necessary," Rebecca interjected smoothly. "Phileas is well known as a British agent in Prussia; every moment he spends here is dangerous for him. I trust it is not too late to go to the morgue. Is it very far from here?"  
  
"I..." Brideshaw looked at Phileas and relented, "No, not at all. Thirty minutes, give or take. It is a trifle late, but I believe we shall have no problem getting in. The caretaker lives there."  
  
The chair scraped noisily on the wooden floor as Phileas rose with all the determination of a tidal wave. Rebecca, too, was rising.  
  
"Shall we?" she said, a little tensely.  
  
Brideshaw sighed.  
  
"Give me some minutes to change into my street clothes."  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Kreutzmer!"  
  
"Colonel?" Kreutzmer rose his head from the briefings he was reading. Von Kessler strode to his desk as if he was charging, his face twisted into a mask of fury.  
  
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted, waving some papers. Kreutzmer, taken aback by the sheer rage in the Colonel's voice and expression, didn't react until von Kessler put the pages under his nose.  
  
"This, man, this! Why wasn't I informed!?"  
  
"But... Sir, this is nothing but a report about some silly visions of the peasants... Some nonsense about a flying ship."  
  
"Silly! Silly visions! Haven't you read the latest reports about dirigibles? Don't you know that one such machine has been sighted recently over Paris? If there is one, there can be another! And if there is another, Fogg is on it!"  
  
"Colonel... Karl, calm down, I'm sure..."  
  
"Sure!" Throwing himself across the desk, von Kessler grabbed Kreutzmer by the neck. The Colonel wasn't a tall man, but under the elegant fabric of the uniform his muscles were as strong as steel. "If there is anything in the world that you can be sure about, Wilhelm," he hissed venomously on the choking man's ear, "it is that Fogg will always find the fastest method to go =anywhere=. It =is= Fogg, I tell you."  
  
He withdrew. Kreutzmer wheezed and coughed, trying to catch his breath. Von Kessler perched a hip on the corner of the desk and watched him coldly.  
  
"Find a group of men at once," he said. "All armed, but no guns: I don't want a shooting in the streets if I can help it. We are going to Brideshaw's house this very moment. And if they are not here, we know where they are going next."  
  
Kreutzmer rubbed his throat. He was about to ask if it was wise, but seeing von Kessler's flushed face, the slight twitch of his mobile, expressive mouth, and his clenched, white-knuckled hands, he thought better about it.  
  
"Yes, Colonel," he said meekly. Von Kessler jumped from the desk.  
  
"I'm going to pick some weapons. Let them be ready outside the building in five minutes, =not= in uniform. You are coming, too: arm yourself. And, Kreutzmer..."  
  
"Colonel?"  
  
"My name is Colonel von Kessler, Colonel, or sir. If you ever call me Karl again... I shall kill you." Von Kessler's voice harbored only naked threat now. "Are we absolutely clear on this?"  
  
Kreutzmer swallowed, hard.   
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Good. Don't ever forget." Von Kessler flashed his impish grin and withdrew. Kreutzmer wiped his brow with a trembling hand, and, collecting himself, went to get the men.  
  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
End of Chapter Four 


	5. Quintus

* * * * * * * * * *   
MEMENTO VIVERE  
  
- Quintus -  
Ne Cadant In Obscurum  
  
  
  
"That way," Brideshaw gasped, trying to keep up with Rebecca and Phileas, whose pace quickened steadily, driven by an increasing tension. Rebecca could understand Phileas's frame of mind. He had been pacing and fidgeting during the time it took Brideshaw to reappear, hastily dressed in an old-fashioned and rather baggy brown suit. Now he was almost physically shutting everything out, his mind completely taken over by memories.  
  
But her mind was not, and she was acutely aware that they were walking on Prussian soil, at a late hour. Still, it was unreasonable to think that there could be any trouble: it was too early after their arrival for that. The streets were scarcely populated, but none of the pedestrians looked even remotely threatening. The sound of hooves could be heard from adjacent streets, and wheels on the pavement: normal sounds of a normal city.  
  
Not so normal, come to think about it. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of carriages going out tonight. Maybe she was too highly strung, but to her ears the number was certainly unusual. At least the noise went past them, towards the direction from where they'd come, and a few moments later it faded.  
  
No, not faded: it stopped. No so far away, either. She touched Phileas's arm lightly, as a warning. And, thank goodness, he heeded it. He didn't really slow down, but his eyes stopped focusing inward and took notice of his surroundings. Instinctively, Rebecca took the rear, covering Brideshaw's back.  
  
"Miss Fogg?"  
  
"Keep walking, Brideshaw," she smiled at him, "it's just in case."  
  
"I've lived here for six years now, Miss Fogg, and I assure you, I never had any trouble. I'm not worth it."  
  
"The situation has changed slightly," Rebecca said, perfectly aware of how worthless Brideshaw's life would be if his connection to the British Service were discovered. Ahead of her, Phileas altered his step ever so subtly. Rebecca tensed. Pulling Brideshaw's arm, she went to her cousin's side.  
  
"Two men on that alley over there," he said curtly, gripping the hilt of his sword stick. Rebecca glanced behind them.  
  
"And two more behind us, keeping to the shadows. Damn."  
  
"Want to wager on what's ahead of us?"  
  
"Not really. Are you carrying a pistol, besides that pointy thing?" she asked, readying the outer layer of her dress to drop away with a single movement.  
  
"My Derringer."  
  
"That's =all=?"  
  
"I was sure you will be armed for both of us," he replied dryly, and then he looked at the linguist. "Brideshaw, where is the morgue?"   
  
"That way, Mister Fogg. It is a low stone building, impossible to miss," Brideshaw answered, clearly not liking at all the way things were going. Rebecca looked ahead. Was that a cloak, disappearing behind a corner?  
  
"We seem to be surrounded," Phileas said in a hard voice.  
  
"We'll see about that," she said, exchanging glances with her cousin. Although they had shared very few missions before Phileas's resignation, they had been together since they were children, and now they understood each other perfectly. Rebecca gripped Brideshaw's arm.  
  
"When I tell you, run out of here as fast as you ever can. Go to the woods south of town, to a small clearing about a mile from the main road, and wait. There will be a dirigible there at dawn: you'll see the scale coming down. A man called Passepartout will be there. Give him this," Rebecca took out a small garnet ring and put it in Brideshaw's trembling hand, "and tell him to take you back to England immediately."  
  
"But my house, my work..."  
  
"Never mind them. If you stay here you are dead. Do not argue, we can't afford the time. Just run when I tell you, and don't look back."  
  
"But you, and Mister Fogg..."   
  
"We'll manage. Hush now." They were approaching one of the alleys. Behind them, footsteps clattered on the pavement. At least three, maybe more, Rebecca thought, not looking back. When Phileas started running towards the alley, she ran too, dragging Brideshaw behind her.  
  
They had been right. Two cloaked figures loomed ahead of them, and no doubt more were coming from behind. Phileas's blade hissed as it slid from its wooden scabbard. Rebecca opened her dress as though it had been a robe, and in the same movement threw it towards the nearest figure. That gave her time to take out her revolver and fire once at the bulk ahead of her. Her free arm pushed Brideshaw past the staggering man and towards the other end of the alley.  
  
"Run! NOW!" she yelled, and Brideshaw disappeared at a respectable gallop. Rebecca had half a second to wonder whether he'd make it alive to the =Aurora=, and then Brideshaw vanished utterly from her mind. Phileas had engaged the other man. With the sword, the fool. She aimed her weapon at one of the other three, no, four running figures. One of them came to her preternaturally fast, waving a naked saber. Rebecca dodged, but not completely: the flat of the blade caught her forearm with a loud slap and she dropped the revolver. Her left arm went immediately to her thigh, where she wore her long dagger. She parried her opponent's next blow, using the guard to trap briefly the saber's blade and throw the other man off-balance. He took a step forward to counteract this (=Damn him, he's fast=), and by the dim light of the alley he saw her face clearly for the first time. His eyes widened in surprise and... glee? Rebecca took opportunity of his brief hesitation and used it to gain distance and throw him one of her knives. He dodged it easily and his smile, already apparent, widened.  
  
"Oh this is such an unexpected pleasure," she heard him say, eyeing her from head to toe. Rebecca snarled and jumped: her boot caught him on the chest and he fell down with a loud roar of anger.  
  
The brief exchange took maybe four seconds, and already more men were closing in. Rebecca made a quick count: three men were on the ground, and none of them was Phileas. Where was he? She heard his familiar grunt as he disarmed yet another man.  
  
"Too many," she gasped, fighting the nearest man, and heard his breath come out in a "Yes". Part of her mind looked for escape routes; they couldn't run the way Brideshaw had gone. It was either push through, past the men, or die there.  
  
"Up," she heard Phileas say, and she immediately understood: the roofs.  
  
"I need a couple of seconds," she said. A shot rang in the alley, very loud against the muffled sounds of the fight. Their attackers hesitated briefly.  
  
"You have one," Phileas said, firing the second shot in his Derringer, but Rebecca was already moving, getting rid of her opponent with a well-aimed punch to the throat. Her fingers found her lighter, and even before the echo from the second shot had died, a small smoking object bounced on the cobbles.  
  
"Cover your eyes," she said as they flattened themselves against the grimy brick wall. A split second later the explosion lit up the whole alley. It wasn't really destructive, a mere flash bomb, but the sudden glare and the noise threw the attackers back. Phileas took the opportunity and climbed the wall as nimbly as a cat, followed closely by Rebecca.  
  
They were in luck: the roofs were old but sturdy. Rebecca followed the leaping form of her cousin when she suddenly realized that they were running in the wrong direction, away from the =Aurora=. Then she realized why.  
  
He was running towards the morgue. The damn fool.  
  
She clenched her teeth and tried to reach him. She saw him slow down, calculating the distance to leap across an alley. Then he tripped at the very edge, and fell.  
  
"Phileas!"  
  
She flung herself down and found him hanging precariously from the rain gutter. She offered her arm and he took it, instinctively. Rebecca knew immediately that it was the wrong arm: the blow from the saber blade had bruised it badly, and she groaned as Phileas's weight pulled on it. She was strong, but Phileas was quite tall, and her angle was wrong, and her support was flimsy. Her legs skidded a few inches over the slanted roof  
  
"Hold on," she grunted, looking for a way to shift her weight without letting him go. Noises behind them told her that at least some of her pursuers had made it up the roofs too. Damn. She looked down at Phileas and, in the strange elongated time of terror, saw his face. He looked down, once. Then up, at her face, contorted with effort. She saw his mouth open in a quiet, silent "Ah" of realization. He smiled the strangest smile.  
  
"Don't you dare, Phileas," she growled, tightening her grip, even as she felt herself slide down. Either she'd let go, or they'd both fall in a matter of seconds.  
  
She'd rather lose her arm than let go. And she knew that Phileas knew it.  
  
"Don't you dare, Phileas!" she said through clenched teeth.   
  
"Never," she heard him say, and felt his hand slip from hers.  
  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
End of Chapter Five 


	6. Sextus

* * * * * * * * * *   
MEMENTO VIVERE  
  
- Sextus -  
De Poenis Inferni  
  
  
  
"Phileas!" Rebecca yelled, or tried to yell, but what came out was a garbled inarticulate cry. It lasted forever and an instant; both perceptions superimposed strangely on her reeling mind. Then she heard a crash, a groan, the scrape of soles on pavement.   
  
And a very English curse that gave her back both breath and a heartbeat.  
  
"Come on!" Phileas said from the darkness, and Rebecca realized that the building was maybe two stories high and that something had broken her cousin's fall. There were still noises behind her, the same sounds from a second and a lifetime ago. She hung from the gutter, fought the instant of sheer panic as her arms let go of her support, and fell a fraction of a second into a very unstable and uncomfortable pile of old boxes and half-rotten vegetables. She, too, stumbled from the heap into the alley, a cul-de-sac that opened to a narrow street. Phileas steadied her and they both ran.  
  
Rebecca took the lead at once. During the trip she had been studying an old, but still reliable, map of the town. Maybe she couldn't name each and every street, but by Jove she could get to the oldest part of it and lose any pursuers in the maze of streets there. She started to run, but Phileas's hand on her arm stopped her.  
  
"The morgue," he said.  
  
"Phileas, no."  
  
"The morgue," he repeated, "or I'll go alone."  
  
"Phileas, it's madness. We can evade them easily in the dark and get to the =Aurora=. If we wait until morning it will be much harder. They will block every access."  
  
"Then go. Get Brideshaw to England, and we'll rendezvous at the border in a week."  
  
"You are talking nonsense," Rebecca said fiercely, but even as she spoke, she could see Phileas's face in the dim light of a nearby street lamp. Nothing would make him change his mind. Even if it killed him.   
  
"Nothing has made sense since he died, Rebecca," he said, in a much different voice. Softer. Sadder. Broken. "Nothing has mattered. Nothing is worth doing, or starting, or keeping." There was a pause that Rebecca felt unable to fill; there was so much void there. Then Phileas straightened up and looked past her, his face set. "I don't care if the whole Prussian army comes after me. I'm going there and I'm bringing him home."   
  
Rebecca swallowed her frustration and put a hand on her cousin's arm. He looked down at it and sighed: a little sigh of, maybe, regret.  
  
"Then," Rebecca said, steel in her voice, "=I'm= bringing you both home. Let's go."  
  
* * * * *   
  
"We've lost them, General," one of the men said, holding his aching ribs.  
  
"So I see," Von Kessler said, agreeably. "So I see. Ah well. Nothing we can do now without making a big fuss. Kreutzmer?"  
  
"Sir?" Kreutzmer had been one of the men on the receiving end of Rebecca's punches and kicks. He had realized, vaguely, that his opponent was a woman, but he still couldn't believe that a woman could be so strong.  
  
"We'll tell the police that there's a couple of dangerous criminals on the loose. Let them do the dirty work. Appoint some of our men to all the road blocks they set up, and make sure that nothing slips by. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Kreutzmer said. Amazingly enough, Von Kessler didn't seem put out by their failure. But it was always difficult to gauge the Colonel's state of mind. He could explode in a second.  
  
But he didn't. He put a friendly arm across Kreutzmer's shoulders and smiled broadly.  
  
"Did you see her, Kreutzmer? Wasn't she perfect?"  
  
"Er... Yes, sir. A very skilled young woman." =A murderous she-devil, more like. I wish I had seen her face. That way I could avoid her in the future=, Kreutzmer thought, and then realized that von Kessler was speaking again and he focused on his boss. It was extremely dangerous not to pay attention to what the Colonel was saying. Drastic things happened to your life and you didn't even realize it until all was over and you were facing the firing squad.  
  
"The game has taken a very unexpected turn, Kreutzmer. And a delightful one, too. I shall enjoy this," von Kessler said, as he half-led, half-pushed Kreutzmer toward their carriage. "Call me at once when they are captured. I will personally conduct the woman's interrogation."  
  
There was something deeply disturbing in von Kessler's voice as he said this, and for a moment Kreutzmer found himself wishing that at least the woman would escape them.   
  
"No, no, no, no, no, my friend," the Colonel's voice hissed by his ear, and his arm grasped his shoulders in a grip of iron. "None of that, now."  
  
"Sir, I didn't..." How could he know? There were rumors, among those who had worked with the Colonel, that von Kessler had sold his soul to the Devil, in return for the power to read men's minds. For one wild moment Kreutzmer was willing to credit it as truth. The Colonel's smile was feral and terrible in its cheerful way, as though he knew exactly what Kreutzmer had been thinking.  
  
"You must be ready, Kreutzmer. You must be ready to give up everything for the Service, you see. Your time, your strength, your life. Yes, even your honor. Even your soul."  
  
"I..."  
  
"It doesn't work otherwise, you see? And I cannot afford," now the arm gave Kreutzmer's shoulders a sudden and painful squeeze, "I simply =cannot= afford someone whose heart is not on the job at hand, do you understand me?"  
  
"You can count on me, Colonel," Kreutzmer managed to say.  
  
"I'm sure I can. I'm sure I can. Now, see about those roadblocks, eh?"  
  
The arm released him and Kreutzmer found himself standing alone in the street, reeling with a mixture of relief and fear.  
  
* * * * *   
  
The night was still young when Brideshaw reached the clearing, half-dead from the run, and he almost managed to lose what life he had left when a scale dropped from nowhere and hit him on the head.  
  
"Master!" a faint voice with a strange accent came from the skies, "Coming up, Master! Miss Rebecca!"  
  
"Er... Mister Passepartout?"  
  
"Who is this?"  
  
"It's, um. It's Brideshaw. Miss Fogg told me to..." The scale trembled and swung and suddenly a man dropped to the ground beside him. Brideshaw hiccuped in shock to find the dark mouth of a pistol pointed at his chest.  
  
"Who is you? It is early for the rendezvous. Where is my Master?" the man said. He was short, but well-muscled, and the hand holding the gun didn't waver one bit. Brideshaw fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and produced the ring.  
  
"Miss Fogg gave me this. She and Mister Fogg have been... um... delayed. They told me to come here and tell you to take me to England immediately."   
  
The man's eyes widened at this. He took the ring with his free hand and squinted mightily to study it by the faint light of the stars.   
  
"You are being the Brideshaw that found my Master's brother's body?"  
  
"Er... I think so. More or less."  
  
"What is happened to them?" The pistol was still aimed at his chest, but all the attention of the little man was now focused on Brideshaw's words. He described what had happened, as best as he could remember, which wasn't really very well. But he must have been convincing, because Passepartout withdrew the weapon.  
  
"Go up, up," he said.  
  
"We're going to England?" Brideshaw asked, relieved. Right now nothing looked better than returning to his country and leaving behind a world that had suddenly turned crazy.  
  
"England! What England? Leaving my Master behind, and Miss Rebecca? You going up and telling me everything and we go looking for them, yes?"  
  
"But Miss Fogg said..."  
  
"Passepartout is very fooly. He not understanding the language, see? He is thinking that what you say is that we go look, yes?" the pistol reappeared briefly, suggesting that Brideshaw's options included either following a French madman back into a town swarming with Prussian military, or getting a permanent status as one of the anonymous corpses that were regularly found in the woods around the place. Brideshaw gulped and, clumsily, followed the crazy Frenchman up the scale.   
  
* * * * *   
  
"There it is," Rebecca breathed with relief at the sight of the ugly squat building. Phileas said nothing. He simply strode forward, throwing caution to the wind as he made a bee-line towards the door. It was a good thing that this part of the town was deserted. Rebecca growled to herself in frustration and followed him.   
  
She arrived at his side as he knocked the door, hard, three times. Rebecca flinched.  
  
"Not so loud, Phileas!" she hissed, as a coarse voice from the other side of the door asked who was it.  
  
"We want to see one of your bodies," Phileas said clearly in flawless German. The door opened an inch and a cloudy blue eye looked at them suspiciously. Rebecca was suddenly conscious of her less-than-proper attire. Phileas was in his shirt sleeves; his collar was open, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and there was a huge tear in one of his trousers legs.  
  
All this the eye saw, but the door opened nonetheless.  
  
"Which one?" he asked. He was an old man, bent and scruffy, dressed in a very battered nightgown that may have been red sometime during the Dark Ages and that was now an ugly shade of brown. He carried a small oil lamp in one hand.  
  
"The young man that was pulled from the river."  
  
"Ah, that one. Yes. Who are you?"  
  
"His brother." Whatever Phileas was feeling now, it wasn't showing either in his voice or his posture. His expression was totally under control.  
  
"Hrm. Come in, then. You could have waited until morning. He's not going anywhere."  
  
Phileas's fists, clenched at his sides, shook slightly, and Rebecca stepped forward.  
  
"We leave for Berlin at dawn," she said. "We couldn't wait, you see."  
  
"Everybody's in a hurry, always in a hurry," the old man grumbled, as he preceded them through a small corridor and into the vaulted cold space of the morgue. There were six stone slabs, four of which were occupied by forms covered in sheets. The smell of formaline and carbolic acid couldn't mask completely the sickly and familiar scent of decay. Grumbling, the old man hobbled to a small table by the door, where he shuffled some papers. The unsteady light from his lamp cast their deformed and jerky shadows against the stone walls and over the sad remains on the slabs.  
  
"This one," the old man said, and went to the second slab, positioning himself near the head. Rebecca's stomach gave a painful lurch. It was one thing to embark on a mission looking for Erasmus's body. It was a very different one to stand there by a cold slab, dreading and anticipating the moment that the sheet would be lifted and the features hidden by the cloth reveal themselves as those of her beloved cousin. Without looking, she groped for Phileas's hand. It was colder than death itself.  
  
"He was pretty tumbled about by the river, you see," the old man said. "And all that time under water, even frozen water, has not been good. And after being thawed, well, you know what happens to bodies, even here where it's cold. It's not a pretty sight, I have to warn you."  
  
Phileas said nothing. He was looking, hypnotized, at the face still covered by the cloth. His lips were trembling slightly, but apart for that he could have been a statue. The old man was looking at him, waiting for his signal. But Phileas gave none.  
  
"Go ahead," Rebecca said, finally, tightening her grip on his hand. The sheet was pulled and a whiff of the dreadful stench of death filled their nostrils. The body on the slab was still dressed in the remains of a brown tweed suit and coat. The river, and time, had damaged the face badly, but they had not completely disfigured it.  
  
There was a long, long pause, as they both stared at the body.  
  
Phileas closed his eyes. Rebecca averted hers.  
  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
End of Chapter Six 


	7. Septimus

* * * * * * * * * *   
MEMENTO VIVERE  
  
- Septimus -  
Et De Profundo Lacu  
  
  
  
"The sun is closing near," Passepartout said, as he moved around the cabin of the dirigible doing mysterious things to the myriad of levers and valves that were there. "It is some little hours before is light, and we are having to move now."  
  
Brideshaw nodded gloomily. It was all bad luck, really. If he hadn't seen that blasted piece of news, he wouldn't be now flying in this terrible machine, practically held hostage by a French valet, and going to die under the fire of Prussian guns.  
  
"What are you going to do?" he asked. "There's no way this... ship is going to pass unnoticed."  
  
"You told me where my Master is going. We go that way and look for trouble."  
  
"I'd really rather not..."  
  
"I'm meaning, look for the trouble my Master is making, with Miss Rebecca," Passepartout explained. "They doing that a lot. So when we see the trouble we go there and get them."  
  
"What if that doesn't happen?"  
  
"It is happening," Passepartout said curtly, and pulled a lever with far more strength than seemed quite necessary. "And we're going. Now you tell Passepartout where we're going."  
  
* * * * *   
  
"Phileas," Rebecca said. He was sitting on one of the free slabs, slumped over like a broken puppet. Her Phileas, who always sat with his back straight as a plank. She went towards him to find only his finger raised in a wordless warning: "don't come closer". She sighed and went back to her post by the window. The old man watched them from a rickety wooden chair by the table and waited, showing no signs that their stay annoyed him.   
  
Rebecca fretted. She didn't like their situation, cooped up there without a clear escape plan. Soon dawn would come and the streets would fill with people. By now their description, such as it was, should be in the hands of the Prussian police, and if the men who had ambushed them earlier were part of the Prussian Secret Service, they'd have concocted a sufficiently good story to make sure that everybody would be on the lookout for them.  
  
Assuming that Passepartout was already on his way to England, their best bet would be to escape the town and make for the forests, towards the border. It wouldn't be easy, but they could make it.  
  
Or, Rebecca corrected herself, =she= could make it. She wasn't at all sure that Phileas would even want to try.  
  
There was a sigh, and Phileas got up. Still facing away from her, Rebecca saw how his body unbent, slowly, very slowly, and recovered his usual perfect poise; how much of that was scaffolding, she couldn't say.  
  
Phileas turned. There was nothing on his face. No sorrow, no despair, no desperation. No relief, either. He walked past her and put a wad of bank notes in the old man's hand.  
  
"Keep half of what is there," he whispered. "Give him a decent burial with the rest."  
  
"Why, thank you, sir, you are very generous. It'll be as you say, sir. And may I say how sorry I am that it wasn't your brother after all. The river keeps many of the bodies, you see."  
  
Phileas nodded once. Then he set his jaw and went to Rebecca, who was again watching the silent street.  
  
"Let's go," he said.  
  
"Easier said than done," she replied. "Any ideas?"  
  
"No." He said it curtly, without any particular inflection. Rebecca's skin felt suddenly colder.  
  
Phileas had stopped trying. This last blow had emptied him of any lingering remains of hope. He wasn't going to take any active part in their getting out of Prussia.  
  
By every rule in the book, he was now a liability and would hinder her escape, and she should leave him behind.  
  
Let the book rot in Hell, then.  
  
"I suggest we try to get out of the city before the streets fill with people. There must be some way of escaping without being seen. Let's look for carts or wagons in which we can hide. We are both too noticeable, dressed like this," her hand went over her leather suit. "And I have few weapons left. We cannot break any blockade by force."  
  
Phileas nodded absently.  
  
"Lead the way," he said. Rebecca swallowed her frustration and her impending terror. Her first priority was to get them both out of Prussia alive.   
  
Then she would worry about keeping Phileas alive.  
  
* * * * *   
  
"We've set the roadblocks, Colonel," Kreutzmer said, showing his boss a map with red marks all around town. They were inside one of their official coaches, black and functional and vaguely menacing.   
  
Von Kessler studied the map carefully for some moments and then smiled.  
  
"Very good, Kreutzmer. I also want men sent out of town into the woods. Tell them to be on the lookout for a dirigible, and let them be armed with hunting rifles, the most powerful we have."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"And you and I," von Kessler said, pointing with a gloved finger at one of the roadblocks, "will be here."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"This is the road they'll try. I want to be there when we capture them."  
  
"But... How can you be sure, sir?"  
  
"Ah, my friend, it seems you have not been paying attention to all the nuances of my plan." Kreutzmer went pale. Von Kessler laughed and patted him on the arm in a cordial manner. "Don't worry. I wasn't expecting that you would; your talents lie elsewhere. You see, this is the exit route closest to the town morgue."  
  
"Oh. The body."  
  
"Precisely."  
  
"But, Colonel, if I may... Wouldn't it be easier simply to have posted our people around the morgue?"  
  
"That is the way small minds think. If they had but smoked that we were there they would never have come closer. And I want Fogg to get in there, to believe he's safe... And see the body. And despair. It's far easier to catch a tiger when the tiger has lost its fangs, Kreutzmer. You should study our dossier on Phileas Fogg, someday. He's not an opponent anyone should take lightly."  
  
* * * * *   
  
"I see lots of little lights running, Mister Passepartout," Brideshaw said.  
  
"Torches," Passepartout said, grimly. "They are already knowing that my Master and Miss Rebecca are being there." He sent the =Aurora= up through a providential cloud, to keep them out of sight of possible watchers.  
  
"This is not good," the valet said. "We are closing to the site of the morgue, but not very close. If we are going down, we are watched and there can be shots. And we cannot help them if they shoot us."  
  
"Amen," Brideshaw said, fervently. Passepartout looked at him as if he had noticed his presence just now.  
  
"You come here. Take the wheel."  
  
"Me? But..."  
  
"It's being very easy," Passepartout said, dragging Brideshaw to the steering ball and making him put his hands over the blue surface of the globe. "You just direct with this, up is like this, down is like this, and you do this for the right and this for the left. See? Easy. Now you keep her steady like this, and when I tell you bring her down fastly."  
  
"What...? B-but I never..."  
  
"You do this or I do like my Master and put the gun in your head, hear me? My Master is not a patient man and I'm feeling very much like him in this moment." Leaving the terrified Brideshaw clutching the sphere between trembling hands, Passepartout ran to the weapons cabinet and opened a wide wooden chest that was inside. He took out the contents with a grunt of effort. Brideshaw turned, saw what Passepartout was carrying, and his eyes opened wide.  
  
* * * * *   
  
"Damn," Rebecca flattened herself against the wall and breathed deeply, forcing herself to think. A roadblock. Of course.  
  
She peered again from around the corner. There were two policemen posted by the roadblock, and three more figures, all of them wearing cloaks similar to the ones their earlier attackers had. There was something familiar about the shortest one, a certain jauntiness of movement that reminded Rebecca of the man she had fought earlier. Other subtle signs told her that this man was the leader. Which made his presence at that particular roadblock unpleasantly significant.  
  
She took a quick inventory: she still had her small revolver and a box of fifty bullets, which was useless, since she would never have time to reload anyway. She also had another flash device, useful if they had a way of running away fast enough. But they didn't. Oh, and six throwing knifes. Phileas had nothing: he'd lost his swordstick during their flight across the roofs.  
  
Poor equipment against five men with guns and already waiting for them. A surprise attack might get them past the blockade, but after that they could only run, and that was of no use against guns; the road beyond offered no cover.  
  
Of course, they were Prussians. So disciplined they wouldn't even dare to drop dead without saluting first. That gave her a faint edge, if she could get close enough to grab their leader and use him as a hostage. Besides, her arm still hurt, and she had never been against a little payback.  
  
She looked at Phileas, but there was no comfort there. He hadn't even looked at the blockade. He stood against the wall, silent and withdrawn.  
  
"Phileas," she whispered. He looked at her, and Rebecca had to steel herself not to respond to the naked despair in his eyes. "Phileas, pay attention. We've got to get past the blockade, are you with me?"  
  
"What do you want me to do?" Well, that was something. At least he hadn't turned into a sleepwalker. She explained her idea.  
  
"When I get their leader, grab the guns from the rest; we lay down some covering fire and run as fast as we can." It was a desperate plan, and their chances of surviving it were, at best, slim. Maybe that was why Phileas nodded, and he shifted his posture ever so slightly. Rebecca's trained eyes saw that he was poised for the attack.  
  
"Give the signal," he said simply. Rebecca hesitated, but then decided against saying anything. Whatever happens, happens now, she thought. There will be time for words if you live through this. She peered against around the corner, checking her distance and visualizing her movements towards her objective. The flash device was in her hand.  
  
"Cover your eyes when I tell you," she told Phileas, and then she drew a deep breath and cast from her mind all that wasn't the task ahead. There was a faint sadness deep down within her, an impending sense of loss. She cast that aside, too, and stepped forward.  
  
* * * * *   
  
The cloud was drifting from under them. Passepartout was about to tell Brideshaw to move the ship with it to keep them under cover, when a brilliant flash of light coming from the town stabbed the night.  
  
"Master! I am coming, Master!" Passepartout signaled Brideshaw to bring the dirigible down and ran to the hatch that led to the exterior walkway.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The flash from the explosive device had blinded the guards, and Rebecca didn't waste a single second. She ran towards the short man and grabbed his neck from behind, using her hip as lever to prevent him from getting a foothold strong enough to escape her grip.  
  
"Drop your weapons or your commander dies!" she shouted immediately in German. Two of the men froze, but the other two started to reach for their guns. And suddenly Phileas was there. He punched one of them and kicked the other brutally in the stomach, catching the gun before it fell and pointing it, in one fluid movement, at the rest of the guards. Rebecca dragged the little man a few steps backwards to get around them and past the blockade, while Phileas kept them covered with the gun.   
  
A sudden change in balance told Rebecca that her prisoner wasn't happy with his situation and was getting ready to do something about it. She braced herself, but was completely unprepared for the strength and violence of the man's retaliation. An elbow caught her under the ribs as she barely dodged a heel to her knee. The blow took the breath out of her and she staggered backwards with a gasp, struggling not to fall.  
  
"Alive! Get them alive!" the little man shouted as he unsheathed his saber and swung it wildly towards Rebecca, who was already moving out of the way. Phileas shot twice, and two men fell, but the third one kicked the pistol out of his hand while at the same time tried to stab him with a dagger. Phileas dodged, barely: his waistcoat got caught in the blade, making him spin and almost lose his balance. Phileas let out a growl, and suddenly he leapt and caught the man with a punch that threw him backwards several paces.   
  
Rebecca, recovering from her attack and avoiding another sweep from the saber blade, kicked the leader's legs from under him; looking around wildly, she saw they had a clear path past the blockade and jumped towards it before her opponent could recover. But Phileas didn't follow her: he was pummeling the guard, his fists falling like hail, his face contorted with rage, in a silent and terrible display of fury.  
  
"Phileas! Run!" she said, even as she made it towards the road, throwing one of her knives almost blindly behind her in the vain hope of hitting someone.   
  
She knew he wasn't even listening. In a second he'd be caught, and she'd stop, and turn backwards to him, and they'd be captured, and that would be it.  
  
And at that moment two things happened: Phileas dropped the unconscious form of the guard, and ran towards her; and a huge explosion behind them covered the world in smoke. They both stopped, shocked, until Rebecca looked upwards and saw the =Aurora=, now with all her lights ablaze, and out in the walkway there was Passepartout, lowering his fearsome rocket launcher and waving his arms, and a second later the scale fell a few paces in front of them.  
  
"Passepartout!?" Rebecca laughed, relief and incredulity fighting for control of her voice, as she saw the valet grinning and making wild gestures, mimicking someone climbing a scale.  
  
"Hurry, hurry, Miss Rebecca! Master!" she heard him shout, but she had already grabbed one of the rungs and started climbing. Her relief knew no boundaries as she felt the weight of Phileas pulling down the scale, joining her, and they were both swept away by the =Aurora=, as shots rang in the air behind them, hitting only the night breeze.  
  
  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
End of Chapter Seven 


	8. Octavus

* * * * * * * * * *  
MEMENTO VIVERE  
  
- Octavus -  
Repraesentet Eas In Lucem Sanctam  
  
  
  
Heinrich knocked at his superior's door.  
  
"Come in," came the cheerful reply. He entered and left a pile of documents between the two men that sat at opposite sides of the big table.  
  
"The dossiers you requested, General," he said. Von Kessler lifted the first sheet with two fingers and studied it as if it were a precious gem.  
  
"Thank you, Heinrich," he said, dismissing him with an airy gesture of his free hand. When the secretary closed the door behind him, Kreutzmer cleared his throat.   
  
"Are you going to keep him?" he asked, articulating with difficulty through the bandage that bound his jaw. That man Fogg had a fist of iron.  
  
"Of course. He's the one that was running the business, more or less, during the time my respected predecessor sat on this chair," von Kessler said, eyes sparkling. "I'm going to keep him at least until I figure out all the mess Weigand left behind."  
  
Kreutzmer nodded. Von Kessler had turned the report of their failed mission into a deadly weapon, pointed directly at Weigand's administration. Under the poisoned magic of von Kessler's prose, all of the blame for the failure was revealed as the inevitable result of the weaknesses in Weigand's command, and all of the excellent points of von Kessler's plan had been - in the end - unfortunately unable to overcome the crushing weight of Weigand's multiple inadequacies. Kreutzmer had written the fair copy of the report and he was still amazed at von Kessler's ability to manipulate and twist the facts using the subtlest of touches. Besides, von Kessler in person, bandaged and limping, had presented the report to the Kaiser himself in an emergency meeting at the crack of dawn, earning a commendation for courage, a promotion to General, and a new medal to add to his already impressive array. After this, Weigand had received a laconic note that had sent him packing to some health resort in Bavaria.  
  
"The Fogg dossier is there, Kreutzmer. I want you to study it very carefully, along with every piece of information we have on the British Secret Service and England."  
  
"Yes, sir."   
  
"And prepare yourself, because you're being promoted."  
  
"Col- General?" the faintest light of hope dawned in Kreutzmer's eyes. Up until that moment he had been dreading this interview. Surely von Kessler would want someone to take the blame for Fogg's escape.  
  
"Yes, my friend. I'm sending you to England in a very delicate mission: you are to infiltrate them as my eyes and ears, my trusted covert agent. We'll prepare a suitable identity for you and you'll travel there as soon as everything is ready."  
  
Kreutzmer stood motionless. This was too close to exile to feel like a reward.  
  
"May I ask... for how long, sir?"  
  
"As long as it takes. Maybe longer. I want to know all about that dirigible, Kreutzmer. And all about that woman. If the British are using women now as field agents, I want to know all about them: names, faces, skills, weaknesses. Am I clear? If the woman we met last night is an example of what we're going to have to deal with from now on, I want to know. And I want to be prepared. Are you ready for this, my friend?"  
  
_My honor, my life. Even my soul_. Kreutzmer took a deep breath. He had dreamed of taking Heinrich's position. And now he was being sent to an enemy country in a long, thankless and dangerous mission. But it was undeniably an important one. He sat straight on his chair. He would go. He would adapt. And he would be worthy of von Kessler's trust.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Von Kessler watched him with a benign, almost paternal smile.   
  
"Wonderful. No doubt we will see that remarkable dirigible again. But next time, Kreutzmer... Next time we'll be waiting."  
  
* * * * *   
  
The =Aurora= sailed over Prussia, gliding as smoothly and gently as a sunbeam through the quiet blue sky. The main cabin was in silence, except for the faint snoring of Brideshaw, asleep on the padded bench, and Passepartout's tinkling sounds as he prepared tea in the tiny kitchen. Phileas, who hadn't said a word since he arrived aboard, was in the exact same posture he had been during the last few hours, looking through the panoramic windows to the landscape below. This was the scene Rebecca found as she came downstairs, dressed in a comfortable and utterly proper blue dress.  
  
"Miss Rebecca, I have the cup of tea ready, you wanting some?"  
  
"Tea sounds lovely, thank you, Passepartout," she said. He poured her a cup and stood by her as she drank it, waiting for her approval.  
  
"An excellent brew indeed," she said. "Your own mix, I gather?"  
  
"Yes, Miss Rebecca," the open, honest face of the valet blossomed in a huge grin. "The Master is liking this one very much too, that is why I'm making it."  
  
"You are a man of unsuspected depths," Rebecca said, watching him intently. "And although you disobeyed our direct orders last night, I cannot possibly blame you. You saved our lives."  
  
Passepartout turned crimson and shuffled his feet.  
  
"I'm not liking going to England by my loneliness, Miss Rebecca. Can you explain this to the Master, please? He is not listening to Passepartout."  
  
"He's not listening to anybody right now," Rebecca said softly, laying cup and saucer on the table. "All this has been... very difficult for him."  
  
"Not finding brother Erasmus is a big sad thing, yes," Passepartout nodded. "And the Master is very very sad. Aren't you sad, also?"  
  
Rebecca looked away for a moment.  
  
"I buried Erasmus a long time ago," she said finally. "I wanted the body to be his, for Phileas's sake. Sad? Yes, I'm sad, Passepartout. But I'm also done grieving."  
  
They both turned their eyes to the still form of Phileas.  
  
"Is he grieving for the ever and ever, Miss Rebecca?" Passepartout asked sadly. "I'm not liking seeing him like this. He gave me the clap on the shoulder and I'm all right now, I know that is his way to tell thanks when he's too sad for words, but I'm not liking seeing him too sad for words."  
  
"Nor I," Rebecca said, and went to her cousin.  
  
"Phileas," she said, rubbing his shoulder gently, "Passepartout has made tea. Come to the table and eat something."  
  
His lips parted and his face took such a forlorn expression that the tears that Rebecca had been bottling inside her since the beginning of the mission welled up in her eyes. Blinking rapidly, she turned her gaze to the landscape below her. They were flying over a deep gorge carved between mountains covered in a dark green blanket of pines. The water ran fast and white as snow, glinting here and there in the morning sun.  
  
"It's very beautiful," she said.  
  
"There," Phileas said, pointing. His voice sounded raspy and tired. Rebecca looked and saw a point in which the river bed narrowed. The water ran between two tall stone cliffs and fell in a waterfall.  
  
"He fell there," he said simply. Rebecca found she couldn't speak; her throat felt tight and her eyes burned.  
  
"It's a lovely place to rest," she said finally, and the words sounded terribly awkward and inappropriate for the depth of sorrow that she could feel inside her cousin. He didn't look at her. He closed his eyes, lips moving in what could be a prayer or a curse, and he leaned on the brass rail, and his head bowed down. A dry, hacking sob tore his whole frame, and he wept.  
  
Rebecca ached to touch him, to comfort him somehow, as he wept for a long time, desperately, silently, until the weight of his grief overwhelmed him, and he fell on his knees, unstrung. Rebecca embraced him then, and he clung to her as a drowning man to a plank, while she held his head against her chest, rocking him gently, feeling the hot tears soak her dress and reach her heart. And she wept too, for Erasmus, for Phileas, for all they had lost and were still to lose, all the way whispering comforting words for them both.  
  
"It's all right," she said over and over, "It's all right, Phileas. Shhh. He's resting now. He's beyond pain now. He knows you love him. He knows. You know he wanted you to live. Don't scorn his last gift. Shhh. Rest now, Phileas. Rest now, and let him rest."  
  
The =Aurora= left the gorge behind, and sailed through the silky blue of the sky, towards England, and their lives, and their home.  
  
  
  
FINIS  
- Requiem aeternam dona eis -  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 


End file.
